Becoming Mrs. Booms, Act One

It was early Autumn, 1996. I had just crossed over into that great beyond that lies past childhood. I wasn't quite an adult. I could no longer live with my parents simply because bitch slapping those who gave you life is considered insulting or just down right rude.

I was stumbling around in the world, trying to find my place. Trying to act like a big person, mostly just clinging onto that youth that I never really had to begin with. I had been forced to grow up way too fast and now I just didn't want to be a grown up at all.

I had already forsaken college and had moved on to cosmetology school, which with just one short month in, I already knew it was a big mistake. Just like nursing, this wasn't my field. Mostly because touching other people was, to put it simply, for other people to do. Not me.

That leap, that jump to this school was going to be the thing that changed my entire life. I would only spend roughly three months there, but my life would never be the same. The thing about "beauty school" is that unless you've got a wide gap between it and your high school years, there isn't a lot of difference. Except this time? Your entire class is just. bitchy. girls.

That's it. We had one dude. One, lonely yet lucky, lucky dude. I spent the first two-weeks hanging with the only girl who pushed the nerdy envelope in the class. And, to put it mildly, she was dull. So very dull. I actually concentrated on braiding hair in that time. Which, by the way, I can't do worth a shit. It was the worst way to start the schooling. However, when we got to updo's, guess who won every class competition.

Me, bitches, me. Now, shut up or I'll stab you with a hair pin.

During those quiet two weeks, if I had known, if only I had known, I would have slept more.

Soon, the mean, rough girls that were loud and obnoxious could no longer be avoided. They were going to drag me into their world and there was not a damn thing I could do about it. The truth of the matter was, they had no idea what they were doing. Inviting me into their little world, would only invite them out.

The three of us were trouble. Their names were Summer and Shay. Summer and Shay had never, ever been mistaken for nice girls in their entire lives. I was still commonly mistaken for one in those days. Okay, the jig is up, I still am... ssssh.

After the first glitter covered club night with those two, I don't remember one more thing about school. But, as you might have guessed, not one of the three of us ended up licensed.

Class time was spent giggling and doodling. Playing with hair and whispering about things we had done the night before. It was a giant slumber party that my parents were paying for. My hair changed colors more than I changed my underwear, you know, when I wore it.

Shay had a steady that wasn't so steady and Summer was already on her second boyfriend since I'd met her. Little did I know at the time, that both of Summer's men would play a part in my life. The first one, RJ, didn't last long. But let me put this out there for you to ponder. RJ was in the Army. At the time, he of course, had a roomie. That roomie would later become my ex-husband. And later? RJ would share a house with my current husband. And yet? He had nothing to do with my meeting them, because you see. I never met, as my daughter calls him, Uncle RJ when he was dating Summer.

Summer then started dating someone new. Someone different.

Every day she'd come into class with a story about her new beau. How cute he was, how great he was. Our evenings were spent in her parent's basement, which honestly, was bigger than any of the houses I had ever lived in. We put in her new boyfriend's mix tape and giggle some more and dance. And she would get very serious and say, "If he knew I was letting you listen to this, he'd be so mad." Why would be mad? Probably because he was just a fledgling DJ. Spinning records on his friend's deck, in his one room basement apartment.

When I listened to those tapes, I listened. I mean, I really, really, listened. I don't know why. I still don't know why I hung on her every word when she talked about him. But I did. And with every word, with every song, with every beat I fell in love.

I had never seen his face. I had never heard his voice. I had never touched his hand.

Then it happened.

Summer and I had spent the afternoon shopping (her mostly lifting) and getting ready to head out for what would be the very first party in a warehouse I would ever attend. I was going to a rave, kids. First stop, however, was to pick him up.

We drove her convertible Mustang down to the part of town that I lived in when my mom was a single mother and roaches were our roommates. We parked behind the building, walked through the crumbled lot, through the basement door that didn't close all the way, we passed the washers and dryers and knocked on his door.

It opened. She said, "This is Jason".

I kid you not, this is what really happened.

My eyes met his.

And, my heart dropped into my stomach, and my stomach dropped into my shoes.

The she said, "And this is Mike." I tore my gaze away from those blue eyes to meet more blue eyes, in a heavily freckled face.

I hated Mike. HATED. HIM. So what did I do? I ended up dating him. So not worth your time. Or mine for that matter. All the way to the party, in the backseat of that Mustang, Mike annoyed the holy living hell out of me.

When we got to the party, Summer said "This is James."

Six months later, Mike would cheat on me.

A year after that, James and I would be married.

Jason? Well...

All I can say is that I must have been emitting some toxic pheromones that night.

To be continued...

Updated: The Muppet Babies Are Going to Make Me Work Out

Last night I decided that I had had enough of THIS (waving my hand all around in front of my beer gut). It's been a long time coming and you know how with heroin you have to hit rock bottom before you get that monkey off your back? And by rock bottom I mean you find yourself dressed up like Cinderella in the bottom of a dumpster with a can of tuna on your head like a pillbox hat. And when you try to remember how you got there the only word you can come up with is 'robots' and you're pretty sure that wasn't really how you got there. It was a lot like that only less "found in the dumpster Barbie" and more "oh my God, I'm gross and have nothing to wear".

I've just been decidedly uncomfortable. I've been slowly creeping out of every pair of jeans I own and when I bend over I actually have this ball of belly flub that hangs over the top of my pants and let me tell you, that has never happened to me before. I'm not even convinced that it is ever going away. I'm more easily convinced that there is a just a rather large parasitic donut growing in there that is actually some seed for a master race of aliens that will come and take over, but more than likely it's just, you know, beer and french fries.

Mmmm, fries. Especially with chili and cheese. Oh, oh and onions.

And, now you see my problem.

So last night I went down in the storage room and dug out my favorite work out video that has been sitting in there since we moved in the house and evidently, I've been discouraged at finding it because it was all like in a box, that was taped shut and everything. I was sure it was going to be 30 whole minutes of digging, scrounging and pretending I'm on a geological expedition in South America all Muppet Babies, let's imagine style, and it was actually in the second box I looked in. Which just made the last two years of my life seem more disgusting than they actually were before I set foot in that storage room.

The video itself is super embarrassing because, and get this, it's totally Buns of Steel... FOUR! Buns of Steel Four. I got it for a dollar and the last time I used it, I ended up wearing a bikini in Mexico. I'm pretty sure that will never happen again, but then I also came up with that bullshit about alien donuts and Muppet Babies, so you know, it's a toss up.

Anyway, I worked out last night and when I was done, my head was insanely sweaty and my face was beet red, but you know what? I felt really freaking good.

And, then I got up this morning and my pants still hate me. So evidently you have to do this shit more than once. So I think I'll try again tonight.

Oh and PS - The hobo dance club has removed the cushionless couch and added a dirty mattress with several pairs of dirty jeans, a door knob and a kids toy box sitting on top of it. I'm not sure, but I think it just became a hobo strip club.

PPS - and now that I wrote that and then read out loud back to myself, that all seems even weirder than I initially thought.

And, my co-workers want to know why I'm mumbling about hobos, but not in a real concerned for me way, mostly in a selfish, is she going to shank me way.

And yes... Yes I will, back off.

PPSS - When I said I ended up wearing a bikini in Mexico, it wasn't like waking up in the bottom of the dumpster. I remembered flying to Mexico and everything. The video had nothing to do with it and absolutely did NOT slip me rufies or anything.

I Don't Have The Balls To Speak For My Entire Gender

I guess you can call this a counter point: In case you missed it, Dell Computers launched a new site directed at women. Meet Della.

Della is evidently pissing women off everywhere. And, those women are saying something about it. Loudly, boldly, and all over Twitter. Running the risk of offending somebody, I'm just going to go ahead and say it. Kindly shut up.

All day long I hear women bitching that marketing isn't directed at women. Women who make the majority of the buying decisions in households across the country. And guess what! When Dell does direct marketing at women they then bitch that it's insulting.

It reminds me of the pain reliever campaign that tried to speak to the mommy world and insinuated that maybe, just maybe they had back pain from carrying their little ones in slings all day long. Mommy's everywhere railed against it and how insulting it was.

Really? Was it insulting? Or did your back actually hurt from carrying that little bastard around all day long. Because I don't know about you, but my kid is heavy and my back is a mother fucker at the end of the day, thank you, I will have a pain reliever with my beer when junior goes down for the count.

So, yesterday I tried to dig in a little bit and find out what was so insulting about Della. I'm not going to name anyone here, because I'm not representing anyone else, I represent my opinion only. But I was told that this site assumes that we're not as bright as men. Really? Is that what it is saying? Or is it saying that we like things in pretty colors? Because that's what I think it's saying.

And guess what? I fucking love pretty colors. And, when I clicked on the button to build my own computer guess what that sonofabitch did! Just guess? It started asking me technical questions, just like I was, dare I say it? A man! GASP!

Yes, once you go to order a computer on this site it asks you all kind of questions about what you want your pretty pink laptop to have for brains.

I guess what I'm saying ladies, is please stop speaking for our entire gender. I never felt like Dell was telling me I needed to have a huge set to order from their site. I felt like they understood that yeah, I like my shit pretty. Just because I bleach my hair, have boobs and wear the color pink every fucking day of the week, does not mean that I don't understand the tech world. I don't understand the tech world because I just DON'T! So when the tech world gives me a site where I can pick out whatever I want, just like a man, but with pretty colors all around, well... I'm kind of pleased about it. When the marketing world realizes that yeah, my back kind of hurts from lugging my big kid around, well gee, thanks for noticing.

They never said that I was less of a man because of it. They just told me they get it and if I don't like it then I'm more than welcome to strap one on and use the regular old site just like any dude, or any woman who just doesn't dig the Della site.

And, someday I hope that I can stand up for our gender and say, "yes, I like to bake, yes I like Hello Kitty, yes I want a free spatula with that, thank you! And now, I don't give a shit how much ram I have, can I get on Twitter? Can I blog?" Because I'm just a dumb shit girl who likes what I like.

Just like all the fuss over Twitter this week with their change in reply views, I have this to say: It's all free folks! It's free! The Della site is a choice, you don't have to see it. Twitter is a choice, you don't have to use. And frankly? I think you'd bitch if they hung you with a new rope.

Let's take it down a notch and realize the intent was not to insult. So don't treat it like it was:



Oh and PS? I work in marketing. Shhh.

Is It Still Called My Happy Place If There Are Shivs and Shin Kicking Gnomes Involved?

This week has found me saying "a-hole" more than the average amount. Whether it was in the rain-soaked traffic or muttering it under my breath, just out of ear shot of my almost two-year old as he threw his 800th fit of the day. Yes, I called my adorable son an asshole. Because he was. Being an asshole that is.

What I'm saying is I've had it with all you assholes out there. And, I don't know if that means you, but if you think that it might then just stop being an asshole and we'll all be okay.

Monday started the week in fine form with layoffs in my office. We all sat around waiting to see if we could kiss our asses good-bye, so by the time they got around to telling you what percentage your pay was going to be cut, you were dancing for fucking joy that you still had a paycheck. It was only later that you stopped and thought about it and went, "Hey! I just got screwed!"

After wading through the mounds of COBRA paperwork and making sure I was all up on the new COBRA stuff (which would be more fun if I could be all hip hop and singing, "I'm all up in your cobra stuff"), I sat around with shaking hands for the rest of the day to drive home to Young Wheezy and his full-on fuck you attitude.

And then? The rest of the week went like this:

* The kid stayed sick and wheezy and grumpy and just schmucky and junior douchey in general. This morning he laid on the floor, face down and screamed for an undetermined amount of time.

Undetermined because by that point, I ceased to care about whatever it was that he completely invented on the spot to get pissy about.

* Jason went into Monk's room with a box of trash bags and went to town. Now our garage is filled with bags and bags of all things pink, glittery, fluffy and girly until she goes through it all and decides what it is that she can't possibly even think about going on living without. And, because "the puberty" is imminent she's been a joy to be around.

* Proofreading multiple replacement window brochures, multiple times. Who knew you could write 20 pages on windows? Well I know, I also know that degrees MUST be spelled out and for the love of all things zombie, why the fuck can you not stop hyphenating that fucking word? I circled it over 100 times already.

* Ants, fucking ants. Why? Because the people in my office drop things like pecans on the floor and then just leave them there. Simply so they can come up to my desk and whine about all the fucking ants in the kitchen.

* And apparently eating all those fucking pecans makes them stop up the toilets which then again, becomes my problem because evidently no one can wield a plunger except for me.

* Speaking of toilets, it's common courtesy to put the toilet seat down in shared bathrooms. I mean unless you're a hobo. And if you're a hobo then go piss in the alley where all the hobos take our trash out of the dumpsters and just leave it there so we can hand pick it all up. I don't want to touch the toilet seat every time I take a whiz. Seriously, it's just a little like touching every ass in this office and I'm not down. Especially because it seems you are hobos, dirty, hobos. Besides, there is trash in the alley I have to go pick up now. Scooping up old spaghetti and used tissues is just my idea of a righteous time.

If all of that wasn't enough, then my red, swelling, itchy eye and my also swelling fat ass should be. Because as it turns out, I also eat when I'm stressed out. Which meant that, yet again, this morning as I went to put on my jeans all they did was groan and say "fuck you, lard-o". Being curvy isn't always grand. Actually, it's mostly not grand. Also? I didn't know that denim could actually groan and creak, but look at that, it just did.

I am now sitting here, fashioning plunger handles and pecans into shivs. Pointy-ass shivs. I've gone on to create a hobo assembly line, with all those dirty, drunken hobos just a whittling away. Because if you're going to do it, you do that shit right.

You Are Perfect And Spotless

It's the type of morning where you rush from the car, through the rain, into the drug store. Where once inside that store you plunk down a Diet Coke, a bag of M&M's and the biggest box of tampons you can find.

You dash back out into the rain and lunge head first into your car.

Crack the bottle, shove in the candy and rush to sit on the non-moving, damp, shiny road, desperately praying for a song, any song, no, THE song to make you feel better.

It never comes. Instead? You just keep pushing the buttons over and over again. Like a nervous tic, while dodging other cars, on slick roads. Breathlessly cursing the 200 stations you pay for and the selection of CD's you have stacked in the changer.

Pulling into the furthest spot from the front door, the wind yanks your car door open, jerking your arm from your shoulder. Reaching into the backseat, you wrangle the giant golf umbrella into the front seat. Shoving it out the door, struggling with your bag and all your Monday morning needs, you pop open the umbrella where it inverts INSTANTLY.

And I say you because you've had this morning too. Right?

If you haven't? Then fuck off. You are perfect and spotless. I am damp, soggy, wrinkled and soft. And slightly angry.

But mostly? Sad.

I'm An Asshole And It ACTUALLY Is News To Me

A little over a week ago I swore I would never guest post again. And I meant that. Because it's done not much more than bite me in my fat ass. But, then I was asked and of course I did.

I was asked to do another blog review and here's the thing about those reviews. They tear me up inside. Evidently, I'm way too kind of a person to love tearing someone a new asshole.

This time around, I wanted to love the blog. And when I clicked over and saw that the reviewee was sarcastic and funny I thought I went to freaking heaven.

Not so much.

In the course of reading every single post on her blog I discovered that not only did she liken Democrats to child molesters, but she nary went a day without making fun of overweight people.

She was coarse and shallow. She's spoiled and rotten.

And fuck!

I liked her.

Do I truly like her? No, probably not. I just don't give a big enough shit about how I look, what I wear or what anyone around me is wearing. I don't think calling people fat is a fucking riot nor am I concerned when said fatty wears a bikini.

I don't think that making fun of your Asian manicurist's grasp on the English language is funny because, hell, can you speak her language? Like at all? No? Right, she speaks two languages and you are making fun of her.

You are an ass.

So, at first I was torn up because I laid into her and called her a spoiled twat.

Which I stand by.

Wholeheartedly.

But then? Then I kept reading and reading and reading. I read the whole fucking thing.

And I liked her.

And that tore me up inside even more.

I would have a beer with this broad.

Because, evidently, I'm an asshole.

How To Feel Like The Walking Dead In Two Easy Steps, And Not The Awesome Zombie Dead, Just The Dead Dead

"With Fervor!" is how I would describe the way I bit into a piece of moldy bread this weekend. In my defense, I didn't notice the giant, green pond of mold until after I had thoughtfully chewed and swallowed. (It was so not thoughtful at all. It was a feeding frenzy, if you could have a feeding frenzy on one piece of bread.)

That first bite? Delicious, yet nearly vomit inducing. I noticed I had a fraction of an inch between my teeth marks and the penicillin packed punch of moldy fantastic that I had somehow failed to notice.

None of this is the point though, so I should really move on. The reason I was shoving whole grain bread down my gullet like it was something ten times more awesome than bread (like Cool Ranch Doritos, Mutha) is because after my pants declared that I'm an asshole and that they couldn't stand to be around anymore, I put myself on this crazy, no bitch ass calories, fuck you processed foods diet that has made me reclaim my prized Calorie Nazi title.

I'm not going to get into details. Mostly because I know I'm not alone in finding it annoying when bloggahs go on and on about their awesome fat fighting wars.

What I'm trying to tell you, in a really wordy and less than intelligent way, is that if you are going to go on a mad crazy detox diet, don't start on Daylight Saving Suck Ass Weekend (DSSAW - which I'm also going to refrain from rattling on about because everyone on the net is pissed, we get it).

Otherwise? You might find yourself, standing in your office on a Sunday, devoid of all life sustaining energy, shoving moldy carbs down your throat just so you can muster the energy to scrub a toilet that may or may not have other people's short and curlies thrown about it like confetti (seriously? These people lose underhairs like mad, wolfen freaks).

Really, I think the only way to end this is with an illustration. You are most freaking welcome, my little Love Cats:



Also? I'd give away someone else's left testicle for some cheese right now. This? Is going to piss "someone else" off and I don't care.

Suck it, someone else, suck it.

PS - I watched Gangland - Aryan Brotherhood this weekend, rather listlessly but still I watched. Oh the shivs I saw. It was shiv heaven. You know, if shivs were in anyway at all heavenly and not creatively crafted mechanisms of death.

My fascination with shivs has got to end but I'm just all amazed at the inventiveness of it. There is no place on Earth that the phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" is more relevant than in prison.

I didn't know I could write disappearing messages in my own urine.

Now? You are excited for tomorrow's blog post, I know. Boss Urine Messages!

The other day Jason's co-worker wrote me and asked me what kind of make-up I used and if I could offer her any tips for applying it because my face is always "flawless".

So the chick is obvioulsy delusional or her taste is all in her mouth. Whatever.

Jason cannot stand her and thinks she is a total slackass, but she's always been pretty nice to me and I happen to know that they are on the verge of losing their house and her husband is out of work.

She mentioned that she had her reunion coming up and that she was feeling old (39). It seemed I had sat into a situation where I could do some good. About damn time.

So sitting at my desk at work, I pulled out my make up bag and carefully laid out the products I use and how I apply them, adding in more detail than I ever really spend on my face, as I have Satan's little helper attached to my leg most mornings.

I told her of my Rimmell powder ($3.99), my L'Oreal foundation and lipliner and even of the awesome Maybelline mascara ($6.99) I found that is kick ass in ways bat guano was never meant to be. And I treading lightly as I told her that I splurge on my moisturizer with Estee Lauder's Day Wear ($45).

Feeling all crazy good about myself I clicked send and promptly forgot about it.

Fifteen minutes later she responded with:

"Well I only use MAC or other really expensive products. Have you heard of it?"

I responded back:

"Not only have I heard of it, but so has every old ass drag queen. Good luck at your reunion, I imagine most of the men will be bald at your age. And I would go on to bet that if any of them have heard of MAC, they look better than you too."

I'm taking my shiv the next time I go to Jason's office.

Spam In A Box

When my mom asked me what I wanted for Christmas I oddly told her I'd like a tanning package. Generally I avoid those lighted coffins like the plague with the last time I went being right before I got married and honeymooned in Mexico. Because, let's face it, I use White-out for concealer, if you put me that close to the equator I get salty and fried like Spam in a trailer park.

We are going on vacation next month and just like Spam again, I'm all fatty. Fatty and pasty, while that is a tempting and tasty combo, it's really best not viewed in bright sunlight, standard reading light or really any light outside of deep, dark cave. Also? I'm sick to all hell of being freaking cold all the time. Laying in a big warm box sounds like a little bit of heaven. Maybe not to veal but it does to me. Mmmmm, baby cow from a dark box. Who doesn't like soft baby cow meat?

Yesterday, I decided I would stop in on my way home. My previous session resulted in a scorching burn that had finally toned from magenta to a soft baby pink and it was time to do it all over again. I should also tell you at this time that about half-way through the day I had realized that I was wearing my underwear inside-out. Rocking at life since 1977.

Leaving work ten minutes early which ended up being eaten up by traffic through the construction area that has been sucking ass on my daily commute for months now, I made my way to the tanning salon. The two teen geniuses behind the counter barely acknowledged my existence and sent me to bed three. It was there that I greased myself up like a good little pig and climbed into the box. I cranked the fan and settled in.

Just as I got comfy the fan kicked in blowing torrential winds straight up my ill-nah-nah. As I laid there fighting gale force winds I really pondered just why they haven't made a room spray in Windy Poonanny scent. I didn't come up with an answe though because it wasn't long before the scent turned and became Burned Cookie.

Naked and slippery, I climbed as not gracefully as possible out of the bed, I looked at my pile of clothes.

For the life of me I just didn't know what to do.

So you tell me? Once you wear your underwear inside-out for 10 hours, exactly which way do you put them back on?

In the end it didn't matter. Jason and I got along last night like my creamy-white butt cheeks and UVA rays. We went to bed red and angry at 8:00.

Ever Had One Of These?*

Sometimes when the phone rings and we see it's him we don't answer it. That is, when he bothers to call first.

Most times he just shows up at our house, his kid in tow. Last time it was at 8:00 on a Saturday morning when I was sitting around in my pj's without a trace of make-up on and my finest bed head raging on from the depths of hair hell.

The doorbell rang loudly, the dog barked louder and in he waltzed announcing his arrival. Wide-eyed my husband looks at me only to seem me mouth, "WHAT THE FUCK?"

When we do have pre-made plans with him it's because he's invited himself. He pulls out the ol', "Hey whatcha doin' on Saturday?" If we answer with a nothing then we are met with, "Well I'll head on out then and we'll do dinner at your place."

Which means we cook too. FREAKING BONUS.

One time he just showed up with his ex-girlfriend and when she asked me if it drove me nuts that he did that, resoundingly I answered, "Yes, as a matter of fact it does!" Then it stopped for a solid, blissful year. And then? They broke up.

As my husband just said? F AN A!

When the kids drag out buttloads of toys and leave them littered from one end of the house to the other, he never offers to pick them up before leaving, he bums everything imaginable and helps himself to a Coke for the road on his way out the door shouting, "I grabbed a couple of Cokes for the road, dude! Thanks!" as he exits the garage.

One really not awesome time? He even told our friend how horrible our kid was and how awesome his kid was. That bought us about 6 months of peace. I wanted to be pissed longer, Jason wouldn't let me.

So yesterday morning when I heard a text jingle it's way onto Jason's phone in the tune of 'Love Will Tear Us Apart' by Joy Division, at 7:00 IN THE FREAKING MORNING on a SATURDAY! I knew who it was. And sure enough, he was texting to tell us he was going to head out our way. Jason called him back and told him today would be better, while I was going to be gone.

He showed up just in time for lunch. Picked at our offerings and then... then? Sigh, the only way is to just tell you. He said I have a fat ass. There you go.

How exactly did that make it's appearance in our conversation? It goes a little something like this:

Me: It's hard to believe the kids are so big now. It seems like just yesterday they were little tiny babies.

Him: Dude, I know. And now look at Crazyman, nothing is tiny on him anymore.

Me: Nope, well except for his buttcheeks, they're still tiny.

Him: Oh, he got Jason's butt, huh? Not yours. Could you imagine if he got your ass.

I swear I just looked at him like he just told me he liked to stick glazed, spiral cut hams with a side of pineapple up his ass.

Me: Um yeah, I guess that would be weird.

Him: No kidding, so does Monkey have your ass? I mean, does she have those hips like you do?

Me: (sigh) Pretty much. She's been curvy since she was two.

Him: Huh, so she's going to have a big one, eh?

With that I got up and left, because seriously fuck face? You could have kept that shit to yourself. I'm pretty aware of how I'm made. Have been for a long time. Ever since my father told my grandmother that gave me the gene pool that manifested into my ass that they could show films on her backside as it was the size of a drive-in movie screen, so the next time you want to enlighten me with your awesome knowledge and tact why don't you just try SUCKING IT instead?

With that my husband declared it's going to be a bit before he comes back again. And that's why I love him. Talk about an optimist.

Like we have a choice. Heh.


Edited: Reading this back to myself I realized it looked like I might be telling him to suck my ass. But I wasn't. I was telling him to suck... IT. Whatever it is can be totally his choice as long as it, you know, sucks.


* Pretty In Pink - but this dude's no Ducky, that's for damn sure.